Exaltation
by KrisEleven
Summary: Written for the summer challenge on TPE: Writing Challenges forum. Lark's life never followed the path of least resistance... but that was what made it so interesting. A collection of one-shots following Lark through her many adventures. Chapter 9 - Lark and Crane come from different worlds, but one person ties them together irrevocably, and that person is dying.
1. Freedom

A/N My first update since April! This story is going to be a multi-chapter look at Lark's life, for a challenge at TPE. Each chapter moves forward of back in her life. It won't have a connected plotline, so expect each new chapter will tell a different story about Lark and the people around her. If you want to participate in the challenge (it's a lot of fun, I promise), the link can be found on my profile. Enjoy, and thank you for reading!

* * *

Lark shivered as dawn slowly broke over the ragged rooftops of the Mire. She tried to think of a bright side to her current situation and came up depressingly, hopelessly, irretrievably empty. Landlords in the poorest parts of Summersea had a hundred ways to get every last little bit of money from the people who lived in their hovels; Lark's had decided to wait until dusk to announce that she owed an extra copper crescent for her unpaid weekly rent. She explained that she didn't have an extra copper crescent a _month_, let alone a week, let alone _tonight_. She was clear, calm and added a trademark entertainer smile to the end of it.

She spent the night huddled in a doorway near one of the markets, trying to keep warm. Looking up at the now-grey sky, Lark tried to remember if she had slept at all throughout the night. She had the clothes she had left tied in a bundle, her few possessions including the needles and thread she had refused to sell in a leather pouch under her shirt and her one blanket held tight around her shoulders. It never got cold enough to snow in Summersea winters, but that didn't mean it didn't get cold. Lark had spent most of the night looking up at the clear, star-filled night sky trying desperately to breathe through the wheezes as the cold air tightened her lungs.

_At least it didn't rain,_ Lark thought, trying to suppress coughs she knew would never stop if they were given into. The clear nights were always coldest, though; Lark had travelled through deserts and knew this, and it made her attempt at cheerfulness ring false, even in her own head.

Trying to turn her thoughts to practical things, she went over her situation. She needed money in order to get a new place to live. The six copper crescents she had in her pouch wouldn't convince a landlord to take her on. The money she had been making in the past two years had come from weaving and sewing for nearby seamstresses and tailors. She had a number of shops which gave her work, but it required time and a place to work; she had neither.

_The only other skills I have_, she thought dejectedly, _are tumbling, juggling and costuming. All of which could make me some money, with a performance, and none of which I can actually _do_._

Drawing her knees up to her chest, Lark set her forehead on them gingerly. She was so gods-torn _tired_. Had there been a time in the last two years when she _hadn't_ been? At times, it seemed like the wheezes had started off a chain of events leading her into the darkness of this moment, every change taking her further from the happy times she'd had in her troupe. She looked up at the sky, her breath hitching. It couldn't get any worse than this... could it?

_It will if I sit here moaning about it all_, Lark thought, bringing her gaze back down to the street in front of her. _One more performance_, she thought, squaring her shoulders. What better way to rise with the dawn? Lark had always known that to change a life, someone had to _do_ something...even when it felt like there were no options left to them. Lark spread her blanket, ignoring the cold as she spread her clothes out and started matching colours. If she was going to perform, she was going to have a costume for it.

As a costume came together from her extra clothes and the scraps of cloth she had kept from her travels, Lark reached into her leather pouch and pulled out her two remaining needles and a small ball of thread. Looking over the costume, she calculated quickly.

_It won't be enough thread,_ she realized. She felt her new-found hope and excitement fade away. She pulled herself together with a shake of her head. _It will have to do_, she thought, threading her needle.

As she began to sew she felt a lightness steel over her; she felt free from the worry that had plagued her since the tightness in her lungs had first began, free from the disappointment and heart-break of losing her way of life, her friends, and her passion all in one day. She stitched along seams, tucked and pulled at fabric, lined up edges and the thread which had seemed in such short supply never ran out. She thought of the joys of the trouper life as she flipped cloth inside out, creating stage finery out of ragged bits of cloth; of the rapture of an audience, the roar of applause, the freedom of the flips and turns, the friendships made among travelling companions... Memories of her life with the troupe, everything it had meant to her, flickered past as she stitched and sewed and –

It was done. The thread ended as she tied off her last stitch. She pulled her needle free and tucked it carefully into her pouch before examining her finished product. Bright blue kerchiefs from Irod had been turned into wide cuffs on each arm. A green scrap of cloth sewn on the inside of the white collar gave a splash of colour across the chest. Ribbon from Yanjing, purple satin from Anderran, red cotton from Sotat... her life of travels all brought together into one outfit. She pulled it over her head and smoothed it out carefully... Yes, it would do just fine.

The walk to the centre of the city from the Mire was punctuated by a gate separating the slum from the city proper. Market Square was busy even this early in the morning as traders and shopkeepers began setting up their wares. Lark spent two of her crescents on bright, colourful fruit, found an out-of-the-way street corner and began to juggle. The reds, greens and yellows flashed through the air in an arch above her head and she added more and more of her collection into the circle. As she added the last fruit, she switched the pattern into a figure eight and shot a quick glance out into the street. People had stopped nearby to watch. A group of children pointed and ran over. A couple shopkeepers were leaning over their stalls.

Throwing one fruit out of rotation, high into the air, and catching it again, Lark took a deep breath and considered. She had their attention. She would make a few crescents with a big flourish, enough to pay for the fruit (which she'd eat or sell, of course) and maybe enough to secure another room, one deeper in the Mire than her last. One day, maybe, if she found enough work sewing she'd be able to move to East District, maybe one day get a steady job in a shop. A practical and reasonable and utterly binding life... Lark wanted nothing to do with it.

She tossed one apple out of pattern, lightly lobbing it to the closest child. His friends clamoured as he caught it and took a bite. One by one, her fruit was caught by her laughing audience. She didn't notice that people passing by had stopped to watch. The nearest shopkeepers had come out of their stores and stands and stood in the street.

As the last fruit left her hands, Lark sprang forward as if to catch it, but ducked into a front roll instead. She pushed herself into a handstand and bent backward, flipping backward and over again. Her audience clapped. There was a small ledge behind her, and Lark ended her flips on her hands, walking upside down up onto the ledge. Balancing there, she split her legs to the side, pointing her toes. In a single movement, she straightened her legs and pushed herself into the air, front flipping off the ledge to land where she had begun, arms outstretched.

The crowd that had gathered burst into applause and she beamed at them, breathing hard and with a tell-tale wheeze, but delightfully happy.

The children in the audience gathered around with questions and demands and she played along with them while money was tossed into her leather pouch. She tried not to gape; there was not just copper being thrown her way... she saw at least three silver crescents in there! The children scattered as a man approached her. He was probably twenty years her senior, lean, with salt and pepper hair and moustache. He was _impeccably_ dressed, his grey, white and blue coat and trousers perfectly cut and in impressively expensive material. Lark looked into his dark eyes and tried to decide if she should bow... but what would a noble be doing watching her street performance?

"Ah," he said as he looked her over. "I see how it was done. I was unsure if it was a pre-made spell, but I see the glamour is in the costume itself. Unethical, no doubt, but the magic itself is impressive."

Lark stared at him as he spoke, uncomprehending. "Pardon me, sir –" she began, but was overcome with a fit of coughing. She covered her mouth with her hands and tried to apologize, but couldn't find the air. Drawing in quick, laboured breaths, her vision was reduced to black and white smudges as her eyes watered and her vision blurred. She felt someone holding her arms as she was guided to sit against the ledge.

The strange man spoke beside her ear, his voice steady and reassuring. "Try to calm your breathing. I won't let anything happen to you, I do promise that. If you can exhale to the count of three with me, do so. One. Two. Three. Very good."

The stranger sat with her, holding her hand for the long minutes it took her to regain her breath.

"Thank you," she said, finally, her voice faint.

"It was no problem, my dear..." he said trailing off.

"Lark," she whispered in reply, understanding his question. She smiled up at him, and he smiled back, the expression transforming him from an imposing figure into someone she decided she liked very much even if...

"What did you say... about magic?" she asked.

"Your costume. The magic you used to capture the audience's attention, make them fall in love with the performance..." He trailed off as she shook her head at him.

"I made this costume myself this morning," Lark said putting a hand to her chest as the explanation winded her. "There can't be any magic in it. I don't have magic."

The man looked at her costume and back into her eyes. He smiled at her. "I do have a certain proficiency at this," he said, "and I assure you that the costume is indeed magical, as are _you_, my dear."

Lark smoothed a hand over the cloth of her pants. _Magic? _"Are you a mage sniffer?"

"No, not quite. My particular talent is finding those things hidden from other people, and your magic certainly qualifies. My name is Niklaren Goldeye, and you, my dear, are an ambient thread mage, if I am not mistaken."

Lark was fairly sure that this man, this Niklaren Goldeye, was very rarely mistaken. As she absorbed his words, she realized that the life of restrictions and limits she had seen for herself only a short time ago was suddenly opened up. Magic wouldn't change everything, but surely, surely, it could change something. Maybe it would give her more options than she had now... maybe it could set her free.

"I think it's best if we go there straight away; they can examine your cough as well."

"I'm sorry, Master Goldeye... go where?"

"To Winding Circle temple, to find you a teacher. And, please, call me Niko."


	2. Scorching

A/N This story is a collection of one-shots, so events will not happen consecutively, or even chronologically. This takes place pre-Circle, but after Lark has become a dedicate of the temple.

* * *

The one room cottage stood in a haze of mid-summer heat. Nothing moved in its still-uncovered windows, or in the tangle of weeds and grass that made up the yard. In fact, nothing moved on the paths surrounding it, either, as the residents of Winding Circle temple sought solace from the hottest part of the day anywhere they could.

The two residents of the dilapidated cottage were not visible from the road, unless a bronze arm or pale leg happened to slip over the roofs edge, or be raised to create some shade for the owner. Up on the newly thatched roof, Rosethorn and Lark lounged, boneless with heat and exhaustion.

"This is ridiculous. We should be finding _shade_, not roasting ourselves out in this sun," Rosethorn said without raising her head from the thatch, her face covered with a straw hat.

Lark made a barely-interested noise in reply, her hand over her eyes to provide some shade.

"We wanted to get the windows done today."

"We will," Lark replied, drowsily, "just... in a bit."

"And clear the eastern yard."

"Best done in the evening, I think... I heard that somewhere."

"You did not."

"Rosethorn, darling, I will get up as soon as you do."

There was a long stretch of silence as Rosethorn contemplated movement and was defeated soundly by the heat. "Very well," she said, yawning until her jaw cracked. "Just until the heat breaks, then."

Lark turned her head so her cheek was against Rosethorn's shoulder. "Knew you'd see reason," she mumbled.

From the yard, one couldn't see the women on the roof, as they drowsed the afternoon away. The cottage stood ready for its repairs. Its yard was uncleared, the windows unfinished and the repairs uncompleted, but it was already the home it was meant to be. Rosethorn slipped her hand into Lark's and both women fell asleep smiling.


	3. Travel

**A/N **I decided on a drabble for this prompt. We have moved forward in time again, so this is set just before the Circle Opens series begins. I suppose now would be a good time to mention that this drabble will be using information from all the Circle books, and not just the Circle of Magic quartet. If you're looking to avoid spoilers for any one book, or if you want the context clarified, let me know in a PM.

* * *

Lark had spent ten years travelling. Yanjing to Tharios to Aliput, she had delighted in each new location. Different clothes and fabric, exciting new foods, languages and customs to discover... everything in an unfamiliar place was _exciting._ Lark had always revelled in excitement.

The night Briar and Rosethorn went east, Lark stood at the door, staring into the night. Tris and Niko were on their way south, Daja and Frostpine far to the north... and even though Lark had loved every_ moment_ of her travelling days, she couldn't help but wish her family were less inclined to leave her behind.


	4. Fresh

****A/N We have moved back in time, and are once again with Lark as she studies her magic, the night before she is to take vows as a Dedicate.

* * *

Every new town she went to, with her troupe, every new performer she worked with, every new audience... all of these were fresh beginnings. Especially in Lark's eyes, since she had never been the kind to hold onto the trials and tribulations of the past. This, though... this was something else entirely and Lark – even Lark of the new starts and wayward ways – didn't quite know what to think of it.

Because it could be so _good_, she thinks. Because she doesn't want to move on when this gets tarnished and boring and old. She doesn't want it to ever get that way. There is too much joy in her magic, too much peace in the temple, too many new friends she's coming to love. If something that feels this right can just go away, she isn't sure what she'll do next.

Taking a deep breath of the fresh night air, Lark looks out over the darkness of the ocean. She was making a life-changing choice in the morning, choosing to take her final vows or to walk away from the temple forever, and she needed time to think it all through. Winding Circle's walls were the perfect place to think, quiet and secluded and –

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked, and Lark closes her eyes and smiles, thinking that she should have known. When your best friend was a seer of world renown, expecting not to be found in the midst of a crisis – even a mild one, of spirit – was beyond ridiculous.

"No," she answered, smiling up at him. "Too many thoughts tumbling around in here – " she tapped her head twice with a fingertip, "– to be able to relax. Niko," she turns as she addresses him, impulsively, "why did you never settle?"

Her first friend of her new life sighed and stepped forward to lean bony elbows against the crenellation.

"The easy answer, I suppose, was that I never did find a place that was worth more to me than all the mysteries the rest of the world held."

Lark thinks about the joy of travel, and understands. There was nothing more thrilling than the first day in a new city, surrounded by things you know nothing about, faced with the challenge of learning how to fit in, with the sureness that there would be weeks where you learned something new every single day. That was just with tumbling and everyday things... what would the knowledge be like with magic? Lark was sure she could stay in Winding Circle twenty years and not learn everything there was to know about magic. Out in the world...

But she thinks about that kind of life. Constantly on the move, years passing before old friends are seen again, missing out on home and hearth and... family? A pair of sharp brown eyes and a snarky smile flash in her mind's eye and she thinks she's not ready to leave. The mysteries of the world were enticing, but there _were_ some things worth more to her. Adventures could be had at _home_.

To have a home, too, was something Lark hadn't enjoyed since she was a child. She was ready to be a house-bird... at least for a while.

At least, mostly.

Niko chuckled, and she looked up to find that he had been watching as she thought it all through, and no doubt knew the conclusion she had reached. "I think you will be the most excellent dedicate."

Lark smiled, shaking her head. "Maybe not the _most_ excellent," she replied, injecting too much humility into her tone to be completely honest.

"Ah," Niko said. "Of course. Isas is also taking vows, isn't he? You will have to settle for second best."

They looked out over the ocean for a long, solemn moment before Lark cracked and had them both laughing.

As they giggled their way back into silence, Lark leaned on Niko, forcing him to straighten up and allow her room against his sharp angles. "I'll miss you, when you go away again," she said, knowing that to ask him to stay would be almost a betrayal. He would, for their friendship, but he wouldn't _want_ to, and it made all the difference.

"And I'll miss you, too," he said, warmly. And he didn't offer, but she understood. She had precious things to build in her new life, and would eventually leave him behind, even if he stayed.

"One day, though... one day you'll find someone worth staying for," she said. Because it wasn't the _place_ that was important, and they both knew it.

Niko sighed, but should have known better. If he always knew where to find a friend when they were having a crisis, she _always_ knew what one meant when they gave a 'simple answer'.

"One day, perhaps I will," he agreed, softly.

Lark thought about starting fresh and smiled.

* * *

A/N I'm not sure what was going on here, but it was not intended to be romantic. They are friends, not partners, but they were awfully touchy-feely, weren't they? :P Review with your thoughts!


	5. Waves

A/N We have moved back in time, yet again, to Lark in her troupe. The first bit is from Sara Bareille's _Love Song_.

* * *

_Head underwater and they tell me to breathe easy for a while..._

_but breathing gets harder; even I know that._

* * *

It started small. One day after an easy tumbling routine, Lark's chest ached and it was hard to catch her breath. She laughed about it with Yarla – _getting old_, she said – knowing that at twenty-five, she was nowhere near old enough to not be able to do some splits and a flip.

It came upon her like a wave. Days later, Lark was warming up, just stretching arm muscles and sinking into her legs when her world constricted to her lungs and throat and the air that wasn't making it to where it was needed. She was suffocating, drowning on dry land, and she panicked. Yarla and Symon came running as she gasped and wheezed and clutched her chest. Suddenly, she was unable to do _anything_. Tumbling routines she had been able to complete without a hair out of place were beyond her and she watched as her troupe completed shows without her.

It couldn't last; she was eating food their routines put on her plate, paying passage with their coin, buying clothes with money she did not earn. She knew they would have to ask her to leave, eventually, and, besides that, she felt _bad_; she knew how terribly hard they worked for the coin that supported their travels, and couldn't take what little the earned. Lark also ached for the work itself, and watching them perform without her was breaking her heart.

It was supposed to be easy. She said good-bye, and cried with her friends in the troupe – so, everyone in the troupe – and they promised to keep in touch. If they all knew that it was unlikely they would ever see each other again, they didn't spoil the intent of the promise by pointing it out. They said their farewells in trouper style; performances and food and music and dance. Lark was having a harder and harder time of it, with her breathing, but she hid it and danced with Josef and Symon – a quick jig that left her hiding behind the wagons to catch her breath in frightened, tearing gasps – but she wouldn't have missed it for the world. The next morning, she hugged everyone who wasn't still abed with the left-overs of their drinking (and some who had dragged themselves to say a final good-bye, even though they obviously weren't ready for the light or the noise), and headed east.

It wasn't easy. Nothing turned out like she had expected. Less than halfway back to the small town in Sotat where her sisters lived, Lark ran out of money and time. Her ability to travel had been declining rapidly, until she had fallen far behind the caravan that had agreed to traverse Emelan with her. Some days, she couldn't break camp, her wheezes were so bad. She began to have terrifying attacks, her vision fading as she got so light-headed she'd often find herself lying on the ground, unable to move. A boat she had been in had capsized once, years earlier; she had never forgotten what it was like to tread water while the waves crashed into her face and over her head... no matter how she kicked to stay afloat, they had filled her mouth with salt water and stung her eyes. That time, she was in the water less than five minutes before a nearby boat had come to her rescue. This time she was alone, and there was no extra kicking she could do to bring more air into her lungs. Abandoned in the middle of Emelan, Lark knew she would never make it home.

It hadn't turned out like she had planned. None of it had. She was only twenty-five and it felt like her life was over. Everything she had known was taken from her and she was far from home, with winter on its way. She managed to catch some Traders heading south and they took her to Summersea, but the money she had left wouldn't start a life. _Just one winter_, she promised herself, as she handed over saved crescents for a room. _Just for the winter and I will make it back home. I won't be stuck here in the Mire_.

It started small, with a wheeze and a broken promise. The Mire froze over and Lark spent her coin, knowing she would never make it out of that slum. The waves crashed in Summersea's harbour, and Lark listened as she tried to catch her breath.


	6. Barefoot

****A/N Another drabble, because I like them. :) We have moved forward once again and are hanging about in Discipline Cottage immediately following their dedication into the temple.

* * *

Lark couldn't stop giggling as she followed Rosethorn through the garden. Her friend's glare made Lark cover her mouth, unsuccessfully attempting to smother the sound.

"You wanted to learn this," Rosethorn said, propping her fists on her hips.

Lark nodded and schooled her expression. She listened, interested, as Rosethorn explained trellises and watering schedules and pruning, but couldn't stop her smile. Rosethorn worked barefoot, so Lark had followed suite, and couldn't get over how delicious fresh, cool earth felt between her toes.

Rosethorn gave up when Lark burst, again, into delighted giggles. "Hopeless," she griped, but she was smiling, too.


	7. Growth

A/N This is set during the four's time at Winding Circle, before Circle Opens.

* * *

Lark spent the most time with Sandry, out of all her children. It was obvious, of course: as Sandry's primary teacher, she was responsible for the lessons the others went to Niko, Rosethorn or Frostpine for. However, when the four had first arrived at Discipline, they had spent most every meal and the evening hours in the cottage with Rosethorn and herself... as the years passed, these hours were filled with lessons both practical and magical and Lark saw less and less of Daja, Briar, and Tris. Perhaps this was the reason that she was so shocked when she realized they were growing up. Sandry she saw every day, and could hardly note all the tiny changes as her foster-daughter changed from girl to young woman... but after a week or so without seeing much of the others, the sudden differences leapt to her attention.

* * *

Lark and Briar were walking back from Gorse's kitchen, baskets loaded with dinner (and the inevitable treats Gorse loaded on his admirer). She was talking about something she had seen in the city, and noticed her foster-son had fallen a step behind and was obviously not listening to a word she was saying.

She turned and looked back and smiled, startled, to see that he had been so thoroughly distracted by a pretty dark-skinned novice girl's smile. He was thirteen. Of course he was noticing girls – she just hadn't thought of it before this moment.

As the girl walked passed, Briar snapped his attention back to Lark, embarrassed. She continued her story as he fell in step beside her, as if she had noticed nothing.

* * *

Preparing dinner for one of the rare nights the house was filled – all four children, Niko and Frostpine, and Rosie and herself – Lark was trying to get a platter from the top shelf in the kitchen. There was a reason this cupboard held the items the cottage used least; Lark was on tip-toe and was still _just _missing the edge of the platter with her fingertips.

"Here, Lark; let me." Daja stepped up beside her and reached up, grabbing the platter easily. Lark took it from her with a smile and noticed – for the first time – that she had to look up slightly to meet her foster-daughter's eye.

* * *

The main room of the small cottage was packed full – conversations over food overlapping happily. Lark was sitting beside Tris, with Niko and Frostpine across the table. She had mostly been listening to Rosethorn and Briar on her other side, but she turned back to listen to Tris as Frostpine's question to her caught Lark's attention.

"So," the smith-mage said, "you mean to travel once you leave Winding Circle."

Tris shrugged, looking to Niko. "It's crossed my mind. I want to learn some different magics – mine's so flashy – and Niko said that once I master weather-magic that I'll be able to learn academic... Maybe I'll go north, to Lightsbridge?"

"Well, you have three years before you have to make any choices... especially once that will break your teacher's heart; he would hate to go to that school to visit you."

"Don't remind me," Niko said dryly, making Frostpine laugh. Tris began to bombard him with questions.

_Only three years_, Lark thought. She looked around the table and realized her children were no longer children at all.

* * *

She crawled into Rosethorn's bed, curling herself into her side. They lay there in the darkness, in silence. It wasn't often that Lark grew upset, but Rosie always knew what to do when she was. Lark knew Rosie was awake, but her partner waited for her to speak, giving her time to bring her thoughts together.

"They're growing up," she whispered finally. It sounded final, said out loud.

"Yes, I know."

"Another three years and they won't be allowed to live at Discipline... what will we do then? What will _they _do?"

Rosethorn chuckled a little and pulled Lark closer. "_We_ will miss them, and see them when they visit, and help other mage children and live our lives together. We will do what all parents have to do, eventually... we will let them fly away and hope we taught them to fly true. And them? What _won't _they be able to do?"

Lark smiled and leaned her head on Rosethorn's chest, listening to her heartbeat. "They're going to be incredible," she said, already falling asleep as Rosethorn smoothed a hand over her hair.

"They already are," Rosethorn replied, and Lark slept.

* * *

A/N See, Rosethorn? I don't _always _write you in a temper. :)


	8. Brief Love

A/N This takes place a little later than chapter 7.

* * *

It was one of those things no one wanted to examine too closely, or talk about, or even acknowledge in their own minds. The idea that Lark – even _Lark_ – could make such terrible choices and wander so far astray seemed foreign to the four. Rosethorn just hid in her garden until the affair was over and done with, but Briar, Daja, Tris and Sandry couldn't help but run over it again and again, as if they couldn't _quite_ believe it could be happening. Sandry, in particular, seemed unable to wrap her mind around what was going on in Lark's workroom.

Lark's love affair with the hideous mustard-and-walnut velvet lasted only a week... but a talented stitch-witch could do a lot of damage in seven days.

* * *

"_No_, Lark, I'm not wearing that monstrosity, _stop waving it at me_."

(Niko's panic in the face of a mustard jacket almost made Lark's lapse in taste worth it.)

* * *

(No, it _definitely _made it worth it.)


	9. Heat

****A/N This one takes place during _Briar's Book_.

* * *

They were both Dedicates, yes, and both Great Mages in their own fashion, but their differences were so great they almost walked in different worlds, most of the time. There was only one thing that truly linked the Count's son and the former acrobat and she was dying on the bed between them.

Lark reached out fingers she refused to allow to tremble and rested them on her lover's forehead gently. Rosethorn moaned and turned away from the touch, pained, and Lark took away the slight pressure. Her fingers were burnt from the fever's heat. She sat still, hoping stillness would stop what she had felt shatter in her chest from sliding apart into a million broken pieces. As if her heart could be _willed_ whole, if this was the end.

Crane didn't find peace in stillness; he paced. On the other side of his oldest friends' and first loves' bed, he walked back and forth. He didn't look at Rosethorn as she panted for breath because he knew this illness better than anyone else. He could walk the dimmest novice through the stages of it, and if he didn't look at Rosethorn, he didn't have to accept that he knew, already, how this ended. He didn't have to add her to the dozens he had already failed to save.

Rosethorn started coughing and both reached, reflexively, for the bottle of willowbark they could no longer dare give her. Instead, Lark caught Crane's hand and held it.

The connection between them was as fragile as mortality and there were differences and pasts in the way, so that they should have never been here, holding hands in a sickroom, each others' only solace.

But it was _Rosethorn _who linked them – a link as strong as love – and neither of them would let go.


End file.
